


Aftershock

by under_my_blue_umbrella



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Musketeer March 2021, Romance, don't worry no one really dies in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:27:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29828379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/pseuds/under_my_blue_umbrella
Summary: During an attack on the Queen, Aramis is shot, and she believes him dead.
Relationships: Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Aramis | René d'Herblay
Comments: 17
Kudos: 37





	Aftershock

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to my [Whumptober Chapter 28](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645506/chapters/72094911), but it can also be read as a standalone.
> 
> Also, this is a prompt fill for Musketeer March, alternative prompt "Queen Anne", and I am two days late. But I hit a wall in one of my WIP's, and I needed something to shake the muse loose, so this happened.

Shocked voices erupt, a tumult, and, frozen, Anne stares at Aramis who has dropped beside the carriage, motionless, the side of his head glistening with blood. She feels the scarlet droplets that sprayed across her cheek when he was hit, warm, sticky - _Aramis’ blood_ \- and cannot release the scream of terror that is trapped inside her throat. Blue capes swirl as the Musketeers tackle the assassins and wrestle them to the ground. Her vision a narrowing tunnel, Anne sees Athos among the men, eyes wide, slashing an attacker’s throat while he makes his way to his fallen brother. The carriage rocks as bodies press against it. 

“Down, your Majesty!” Treville barks, and Aramis’ still body disappears from sight as the Captain of the Musketeers throws himself across Anne to shield her from further danger.

“Move! _Move!_ ”

Horses whinny, the carriage jolts into motion, and Anne feels the wheels roll over an obstacle - a body? The smell of Treville’s leathers fills her nose, his chest looms above her, his arms are slung protectively around her back.

The scent of blood lingers. A trail of it has arced across her dress, and she wipes at it with a shaking hand. Aramis’ blood.

_He’s dead._

There can be no question. When he threw himself into the line of fire to protect her, the ball hit him in the head. No one survives that. Not even a Musketeer. As Anne is rushed back to the palace, leaving the teeming crowd behind, loss cuts through her like a knife, and she gasps.

“Your majesty! Are you hurt?”

Treville sits back, his hands still supporting her arms, sharp blue eyes studying her with worry. 

Anne wants to tell him that, yes, yes she _is_ hurt. That shock is shaking her like an earthquake. That her heart, wrenched from her chest, is being trampled in a muddy road in Paris, next to the body of the man she loves - not the one wearing a crown, but the one wearing her crucifix around his neck. That the child in her womb is kicking wildly as if Aramis’ son, too, feels the loss of his father. That she feels entirely alone.

But she cannot say any of those things. Treason bans any of those admissions from her mouth, and without Aramis’ protection she needs to protect herself and keep her ... _their_ son safe. 

“I am unharmed,” she says instead, straightening her spine and lifting her head. “Thanks to the Musketeers.” She allows herself a small trembling of her voice, a tiny echo of the scream inside her, but she pulls herself out of Treville’s grip and cradles her belly instead. Her face feels cooler; the mask slips into place.

The captain studies her, worry giving way to respect and pride. He appreciates strength, and that is what she gives him.

Flanked by an escort of guards, they enter the Palace courtyard. The carriage has barely stopped when Louis hurries down the steps, eyes big, face flushed, arms flailing dramatically. A messenger must have beaten them to the Palace to deliver the news.

“My dear! How terrible! Are you well? Are you unharmed?” 

Treville helps her descend from the carriage, and no one sees her legs tremble underneath the wide dress. 

Louis embraces her, careful with her belly, and she feels honest relief emanating from him, and even affection. Her own emotions are an entirely different matter: Something has broken, and she is walking on shards, denying the pain further access. Louis’ arms around her have no weight, no warmth, no strength. They do not make her feel safe. A deep, Aramis-coloured ache courses through her that she bravely holds in check, at an arm’s length. She may never feel the way she did with him again: accepted, protected, _seen_.

“I am well,” she tells the king, her voice calm and controlled, like someone else’s. “I was well guarded.”

Louis takes a step back, appalled by the blood on her dress, scandalized by the events. 

“Well guarded?! The Musketeers. They failed us, again! None of this should have happened! Treville! We need to discuss the consequences.” Petulantly, Louis raises his chin at the captain. “Now!”

He storms inside, expecting to be followed. 

Treville’s brows knit together and anger, quickly hidden, flashes in in his eyes. He turns to Anne.

“You should rest, your majesty,” he says kindly. “Recover from the excitement.”

When he turns to go, Anne cannot help call after him.

“Captain?”

“Yes, majesty?”

She carefully composes her face. “My Musketeers. One of them- … Aramis...“ She catches her breath, forces tears back down. “Extend my condolences to his friends. His sacrifice will not be forgotten.”

Nothing about Aramis will be forgotten. Not his kindness, not his bravery. Not the flame he kindled within her. With God’s grace, she will see his dark eyes and his thick curls again when their son is born, and she will hear his voice in their child’s laughter. His echo. She will listen to it for the rest of her life.

“I will. Thank you, your majesty.” 

The captain’s voice cracks on the final note, and, suddenly, it seems to be him who cannot hold the tears in check. The muscles in his tanned, lined face twitch. His eyes burn watery blue. He, too, is slain by loss today and is refusing to break in plain sight. 

His jaw working, he casts his eyes down, nods and leaves.

He, too, has a mask to hold in place.

XXX

_Aramis is alive._

Thank God it is Constance who brings her the overwhelming news hours later. Thank God, since the cloth merchant’s wife is the only person who knows about Anne’s affair with Aramis. 

She falls into Constance’s arms and, finally, allows herself to cry. 

_He is alive._

In front of everyone else, it is almost as difficult to disguise her relief and her happiness as it was to hide her premature grief. Light returns to her world. The ground steadies. Her belly flutters as the child in her gives a comforting series of kicks.

Against her better judgement, she insists on visiting the garrison.

“It is a gesture of gratitude,” she explains to the King, her cheeks hot with anticipation. “They saved not only my life, but the dauphin’s as well.”

Stroking her belly, she cannot bring herself to say “your son”. He isn’t the father. His father is a Musketeer. 

_And he’s alive._

Louis indulges her with a dramatic eye roll and a derisive comment on the antics of pregnant women. It’s fine by Anne. Forever convinced that the world revolves around him, he wastes no further thought on the matter. He is so ignorant; he suspects nothing.

The carriage cannot take her to the garrison fast enough. Anne’s heart beats in her throat, joy triumphing over concern. Lemay had spoken of a head wound, of stitches and a severe concussion. But Aramis was awake and talking, and she needs to erase the image of his still body from her memory and replace it with a live one. She needs to look into those brown eyes, open and filled with light. 

And there he is.

A bandage is wrapped around his head, his cheeks are pale and and pain shadows his face - but he is awake and, with Constance’s aid, he sits up and looks at her, at her only, the intensity of his gaze making her breath hitch.

“Your majesty…”

While Athos’ scrutinizes her with his cool gaze, while Constance fusses over d’Artagnan and Porthos looms by the door, Anne can barely hold on to her facade of royal aloofness. The truth lingers just below the surface, threatening to burst her wide open. And here, among these solid, trustworthy men, among Aramis’ brothers, she almost doesn’t care.

“I will be forever grateful for your sacrifice and protection, Aramis,” she tells him, as formally as possible, when her visit is cut short by Constance insisting their patient needs to rest.

And he does. Despite the bravado, his injury is taking its toll. He looks tired and ill, and Anne hates that she cannot be the one to stay by his side, to sit with him, to nurse him back to health. If she could at least hold his hand, at least touch him, feel the warmth of his skin and life pulsing through his veins…

“Always.” 

His fingers gently wrap around hers as he lifts her hand to place a tender kiss on it. The touch of his lips sets her skin on fire. For a moment, they are connected until Athos breaks the spell. 

“If you allow, I will have a Musketeer escort accompany you on your way back, your majesty.”

Reality. It sucks her back into the world of careful maneuvering and dangerous secrets that no one must know. She pulls herself together, away from Aramis‘ pained gaze to ward off Athos‘ offer. 

When she leaves, she feels the weight of her world settle back onto her shoulders. But she won’t let herself get crushed by it. She can carry it, the way she carries this child: with defiant pride, with love and with the knowledge that she is not alone. 

_Aramis is alive_.


End file.
